


Xenoformatted

by Nitrobot



Category: Transformers: Prime, Venom (Comics)
Genre: Body Horror, Forced Bonding, Gen, Hearing Voices, Parasites, Symbiotic Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitrobot/pseuds/Nitrobot
Summary: An alternate continuation to Triage, where it turns out Laserbeak was hiding more than just a bomb inside him and Knockout finds out the hard way why Soundwave never speaks, or shows his face.(listed as a Venom crossover cause it involves Klyntar/symbiotes)





	1. Incubation

**Author's Note:**

> I realised way too late that Starscream isn't on the Nemesis at this point in the series, but since it's already an AU I figured I can get away with just pretending he never defected.

The detonation left its mark on Knockout, even deeper than the panic he felt knowing how close he came to losing both his hands. He supposed it was a some consolation that he only lost some of his servo armour in the blast as he shielded himself… but that was before he realised he’d need to find get another replacement for alt mode’s door, now left in ruins on his arm. The second one he needed the last six vorns! Why was he constantly punished for having a grounder mode, on the one planet that it should have been an advantage?!

He growled as he raked through his stash of spare parts for a third time, for anything he could try and mold or melt or bash into the shape he needed. Those of the Vehicon grounders were far too blocky for his taste, and he didn’t have the resources to keep a stock of custom parts just for himself. His nanites would eventually grow his missing exo-armour back, but until then… he felt so naked without  _ something _ covering his servo.

Well, something other than the metal patch plastered over his burned protoform.

“If you’d just taken better care of your drones,  _ Soundwave _ , this wouldn’t have happened…” Knockout cursed Laserbeak under his vents as he applied pressure to the ugly grey plate. Even doctors couldn’t stop themselves fidgeting with their wounds, especially ones as agitated as he was. With all Decepticon focus on decoding the rest of the blasted Iacon Database, and Knockout having already failed to retrieve one relic, the medic knew he was on thin ice. Just because he was the only one on the ship with surgical knowledge didn’t mean he was safe from Megatron’s ire. Anyone was replaceable in the Decepticons… even its leader. 

Even if he himself didn’t quite know that. 

But Knockout was in enough trouble as it was without throwing treason on top of it all. If he didn’t find a suitable replacement then he’d be in no state for ground reconnaissance, for  _ any _ kind of ground mission! And if his burn didn’t heal-

His burn… it hadn’t hurt when he pressed down on it. He was checking that his nerve clusters hadn’t been damaged, and if he couldn’t feel anything… he tore off the metal patch in a panic. 

There was no burn. The protoform was completely healed, good as new. He probed the surface with a claw and found no marks, no scars. As if the ugly mark had simply been scrubbed away.

...He was good, but he wasn’t  _ that  _ good. Knockout might have shrugged it away and accepted it as being spared decacycles of wasteful healing, if not for the nagging voice of concern at the back of his processor.

...No. That wasn’t his own processor speaking. 

_ ‘Kn...kn…. Knock. _ .’

It was…

It was something feral. 

_ ‘Knock… out…’ _

Something more alien than he was.

“Hello? Who’s there?” He deployed his buzzsaw, scanning all sides of the medbay while his spark flared in his chest. The doors were still locked, the operating tables empty. Yet the whispering, vile and cloying, was still ripe in his audios...

“Starscream, I swear if you’ve hijacked my comms again I’m going to replace your T Cog with a-” He never finished his favourite threat. The voice overpowered it.

‘ _ Knockout… your name is Knockout _ .’ It was. But why was it telling him what he already knew?

Why…

Why was it so painful to listen to? Even as he tried to tune it out, forcing his audios shut, it didn’t cease. It was inside his head. Gouging at his processor. Scratching the glass behind his optics. Demanding to know...

‘ _ What is  _ **_my_ ** _ name _ ?’

“This isn’t funny, Starscream!” What was it this time, a radio wave emitter? Some kind of sonic interference, or an Iacon relic gone haywire? Surely the Seeker wasn't  _ that _ desperate to waste both of their times. 

Or maybe… delusions. Just stray echoes. Rampant program calls to his audios. Glitches. There were any number of reasons to explain away the voice. 

Just one voice.

Growling, snarling… 

With his head in one hand, Knockout hurriedly ran diagnostics on himself. Preliminary exoskeleton scan, spectral energon analysis, endoskeleton imaging…

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. No virus, no bugs, no hardware failures. The voice… it was as if wasn’t there.

Maybe it  _ wasn’t _ there. How long had it been since he last recharged? He’d refueled only a breem ago, but… his systems wouldn’t be using it effectively if they were online for too long. They’d complain. Fire up the usual warnings; temperature spikes, sluggish circuitry. The ache in his optics, the harsh burn of his HUD branded into the corner of his vision.

It would go away. The voice would go away. He just needed to sleep.

Just rest.

Just sleep.

_ Just sleep, Knockout... _

The abyss of recharge swallowed him whole, then spat him back out. He woke up feeling… damp. Damp, and itchy. He didn’t remember dragging himself to his berth, in his room right next to the med bay. He didn’t remember dousing himself in coolant, or whatever it was that lay slick on his protoform like a sheen of oil. His pistons sighed, as if giving up on the answer, before pushing him up straight. He’d wash, then run a re-analysis of his biokinetics. Whatever had settled over him in sleep, it was nothing the finest wax and cleanser combination found on Earth couldn’t rinse off. Then he’d redress his wound, and resume his search for a suitable door replacement. 

And if the voice came back… he’d just mute his audios. Shut down the sensor array, and get on with his work. Starscream’s prank wouldn’t get to him so easily. 

With his processor fixed on the routine ahead, Knockout left his berth. His chronometer told him it was six breems since he shut down, but it felt like much longer. Not that he was groggy or that his processor felt heavier than the rest of him. He felt… better than he ever remembered being. Then again, he didn’t even remember coming back to the med bay.

He hated when that happened, usually after a long and intense surgery. Or after the high grade dousing that followed a long and intense surgery. Or after… a Red Energon binge. 

He shook his head with a grimace. No, he’d know if he’d taken any of that. He didn’t feel the cold burn in his spark, or the sour aftertaste fighting in the back of his throat. He didn’t taste  _ anything. _ Whatever it was, he’d deal with it after a shower. After he got the mire of yesterday rinsed off of him. He shook himself again, and reached for the door to his washrack-

And fell back from it in shock. His servo. The door on it… it was fully repaired. Like it had never been blown off in the first place. Just like his wound had healed without a scar. He touched it, and it wasn’t a hologram. It didn’t feel as soggy as the rest of him, as his shifting insides did. It was solid metal, and it reflected his bafflement tenfold back at him. 

Did he even lose it in the first place…? No, he was sure he did. He remembered the pain, the stinging from the burn in his skin that wasn’t there anymore. And he remembered the voice. The pit it had opened in his spark, that still yawned open beneath him, wouldn’t have been possible in a nightmare. And he knew what nightmares really looked like.

As he stood there holding his servo, in a swamp of his own body, Knockout could only think of one answer. 

“...I think I might be losing my mind.” Wouldn’t have been the first time. He finally let go of his limb, started restructuring his day around the revelation that might be going mad, but just as he got up to figuring out how to hide his affliction from Megatron he heard the sound he always dreaded. Not a voice this time, no. It was the ring of an alert from the med bay; someone (usually Starscream) demanding his attention before they started tearing the place apart (always Starscream). 

“Just what I fragging need today.” Whenever Knockout heard it, an equally annoying and buzzing ache plagued his head for breems after it ended. He’d read some human psychology texts when he was bored and the word ‘Pavlov’ instantly came to mind as he dragged himself from the comfort of his quarters. 

Out of the frying pan, into the fire; another human phrase that bubbled up. He wondered if too much immersion in the local culture really did soil the spark, as Lord Megatron had always claimed. Then again, he only said that so he’d have no reason to feel guilty when he wiped it out. 

When he saw who had summoned him, Knockout really hoped the treason didn’t leak out too much from his mind to his face.

“Oh. Soundwave.” 

The comm. officer loomed near the door, turning his waist so he was facing the medic. His servos lay suspended at his sides, spread out from the shoulders as if he was in a constant state of relaxation not because he saw no danger around him, but because he didn’t need to be alert to deal with it. He watched silently, not even a whisper of gears to betray him as something that had a beating spark.

Knockout avoided staring directly at him at the best of times. Now, in his fragile state, he feared that if he tried to match stares with those hidden optics he might shatter into pieces.

“I… presume you're here about your visor?” he asked to Soundwave’s peds. Megatron had mentioned to him that it would need replaced, but the officer rarely came for maintenance of his own accord and even more rarely ever needed repairs done in the first place. 

Soundwave twisted his waist back to its previous position, a lazy swing of his upper body as his legs turned to face the door instead. As he re-positioned, he lifted a hand of skeletal digits towards his face. When he lowered his servo again, it pulled back his mask with a hiss and set it down on the nearest table next to him.

It faced Knockout, watching him from across the room, and only by watching it back did he noticed something crucial. It wasn’t damaged anymore. But that wasn't what seized Knockout’s attention in a cold, iron grip.

“Not quite,” Soundwave answered.

No one ever heard him speak. It wasn’t a myth, or a legend, or some mystery to uncover. It was just a simple fact. No one  _ ever  _ heard Soundwave speak. But Knockout just had. And hearing it was like he had never left the abyss, like it had sprouted fangs to grind him into metallic pulp. Grinding, growling, gurgling, as if it was gnashing its way out of a black sea. Knockout gulped.

“You… don’t usually speak,” he numbly observed. Compared to the ringing in his audios, his own voice sounded pitifully hollow. 

Still blocking the door with his frame, Soundwave rotated his waist slightly and inclined his head towards his shoulder. It didn’t turn enough for Knockout to see his uncovered face, and he was unspeakably grateful for that, right up until the officer’s servo snapped up towards him, as if a weapon was being aimed. Knockout flinched, and only now realised how close the two of them were. The digits were only inches away from him as they beckoned.

“Give me your hand,” Soundwave ordered. Half of his face could be discerned from where he stood, but all Knockout could see was a pitch black void judging him. Behind him, even more black. A web of it that crisscrossed the door, blocking the only way out of the med bay. He couldn’t see where it came from. 

“W...What?”

“Your hand, Knockout,” Soundwave repeated, with the strong implication that he wouldn’t ask a third time. But even if he wanted to comply, Knockout was paralysed. Rooted, glued, bolted to the floor, and yet-

His arm was being lifted. The same arm that should have still been burned, should have been covered in a nanite patchwork. He wasn’t moving it, he  _ knew _ he wasn’t, and yet, as if it was suspended from a string, it was lifting up, reaching towards Soundwave’s outstretched servo. It was weightless, as if Primus was only gently tugging it upwards before…

Before he tore it open. 

The armour, solid steel it should have been, was split apart like foam and peeled back in wide strips of something wet and red, the excess of which his body absorbed, as his limb rippled out like a flayed muscle- what… what the Pit was this?! It was like he was  _ melting _ , the red paint dripping down into redder muck, embedded with silver veins that turned his claws jagged; monstrous, giant ugly scythes on the end of his arm that Soundwave seized hold of with a black, oozing tendril, his fingers dribbling and creeping up his arm and clawing into the veins, digging into him, chasing his spark, alive in his audios and-

Speaking to him.

“ **My child.”**

The snarl hit him in a wave, and cored its way deep into his audios, throughout his whole exoskeleton, and he fell backwards from its weight. It was the Voice,  _ his _ voice in his head, layered and layered on top of itself until it tremored throughout the whole room. His spark was crushed by the echos as they closed in on his chamber, and Knockout felt like he would be coughing up fragments of it if he tried to say anything.

What  _ could  _ he say in a situation like this, that wouldn’t just be swept away by another voice that he shouldn’t even be hearing? Knockout scrambled backwards, darting his optics between Soundwave still standing over him and his servo, what should have been his servo but was now a mass of slime-like molten metal that seeped back into him to form only the vaguest impression of a normal limb. It was like the aftermath of prisoner torture, Autobot viscera splattered across the ground and draped over his arm. Usually he didn’t mind it, but usually it wasn’t oozing out of  _ him _ . 

“You…” Knockout almost bit his glossa in half from how much he trembled, and had a horrible image of slime oozing out of the wound instead of energon. “W-w-what did you…  _ do _ to me?!” 

Soundwave ignored him. The black slime disappeared much more readily into him, reforming his servo with ease. He grunted as he watched it settle. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Knockout panted from his sweating spark, wanting nothing more than to retreat into it and burst out of his body before it became nothing more than a puddle on the floor. “Wh… _ wh-what _ wasn’t supposed to happen?!” he shrieked.

“The bonding,” Soundwave answered. “Not this early.”

Even with how valuable an experience it must have been to hear Soundwave talk so much, Knockout stopped listening. All he could hear was his internals bubbling, boiling, the cacophony trapped in his spark; all he could see was his own body spilling away from him,  the more he fought to get away from it. 

_ ‘Wake up, Knockout… wake up, wake up, before it gets any worse-’  _ He was babbling to himself, praying, begging for Primus to free him from the dripping nightmare, but the answer he heard was not from Primus.

**“You’re the only one making the worse for us, Knockout.”**

The voice was killing him. It was dissolving him in his own skin, boiling him alive in his armour- he didn’t want to die. Primus, he didn’t want to die, not when so much worse was waiting for him in the Pit…

“Look at us, Knockout. And listen very carefully.”

Soundwave’s voice; still gurgling, crawling towards him on the edge of his senses. His peds on the edge of his vision. Navy blue armour, flowing on top of black, black slime. The med bay lights shining harshly in the viscous void. Knockout’s head was forced upwards, and through a web of red he saw Soundwave’s face. 

White eyes that weren’t eyes. More like patches of mould, diseased and cold. The forked tip of his glossa pulled itself into his mouth, threading its way between the treacherous spires of barbed denta that crossed between his lips, like a cage that only opened when he spoke.

“You have a Klyntar in you,” he told Knockout, the white eyes disappearing momentarily in a blink that squeezed them in between black lids. “A symbiotic parasite. One that spawned from my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I hash out the continuation I’ll go into a bit of how Klyntar bond with Cybertronians (which is where the body horror comes in). In the first few hours after bonding, the symbiote will essentially dissolve and melt all of the mechanical parts of its host and integrate the molecules into itself, while absorbing energon. The outer armour is left untouched more or less, and it serves to contain the symbiote as it clings to its hosts’ endoskeleton. Basically, a Cybertronian host is reduced to only their spark,  processor and nerve node network/circuitry, and is essentially a load of goop held in place by their armour. The symbiote perfectly replicates the look and feel of protoform, and can also temporarily repair outer armour (in the case of Knockout’s door). Klyntar are best suited bonded to organic species, but if they end up with something more exotic they do their best to accommodate. However, as you can see, their influence and benefit to their host is not as perfected as it is with organics.


	2. Fusion

Knockout heard what Soundwave said, but the words slipped out of his processor like the goo that was flooding across the officer’s frame like a thick, living river of slime. This was what Soundwave really was. This was what Knockout himself would soon become. His pebbled reflection deformed as Soundwave narrowed the molten plastic pools that were his eyes.

“Please stop crying,” he said, hiding his fangs by pressing his maw into a thin straight line. “It’s rather embarrassing.”

Knockout blinked, squeezing his optics hard to soothe the burn igniting under the glass.

“I’m not _crying,_ I’m… oh, Primus…” He rubbed a hand against his cheek, and found that he’d pulled away some of his own face. Grey metal to grey ooze, that dripped between his fingers to join the rest of his body as it started to dissolve right from under him.

 **“You’re still making this a lot more difficult than it needs to be, for both of us,”** someone scolded at the back of his mind, just as it liquified and leaked out from his eyes. Knockout couldn’t feel anything other than static prickling across his nerve nodes, the network tangled in a mess in the molten mass. No pain at all, as his armour slowly sloughed off to join his protoform on the ground, but that only made watching it all the worse. His body, the one he’d spent millenias painstakingly upgrading, maintaining, buffing, shining, keeping it _alive_ with not a single scratch to mark its age, was now being reduced to sludge. If he’d felt pain, at least he’d know that he was really dying. But he didn’t, and he was faced by the horrifying prospect that this would be his body from now on, this would be his life, and with his hands fused to the rest of him he would find no mercy from him. Nothing that could stab out his spark.

Where _was_ his spark in all of this? He could feel it; a dull and rough throb in his core, the only solid thing he still possessed. It was keening- or maybe that was just himself. He couldn’t really tell anymore. He could feel the wall behind him, as if he was diffusing into it, knowing it was the only thing keeping his line of sight above the floor.

Soundwave was standing now, towering over him, his expression still as blank as if he’d never even removed his mask. “The weaker the state of your spark, the weaker your symbiote’s molecular structure becomes,” he told the medic, like a sire telling his child to not touch a hot forge. “We advise that you pull yourself together before you melt completely.”

Pull himself together. Literally. Knockout might have laughed if he knew where his vocaliser was. But what else was there to do, but to listen to the one who apparently got him in this situation in the first place? So he tried. He gulped down his molten glossa and tried to calm down, to bolster his spark- assuming it hadn’t been dissolved with the rest of him-, to spit and kick and swear at the voice in his head. He closed his optics, or maybe the lids had just melted into each other, and tried to make himself whole again. He’d spent enough of every day looking at himself, admiring his own finish, his perfectly sculpted and perfectly balanced frame, that he could recall every detail of it from memory. He did so desperately, pining for the body he had taken for granted and just accepted as a gift from the forge that was Primus’ spark. He begged for it back. He cried for it. His spark was solid ice in the pit of that body he was trying to claw back.

Knockout opened his optics after the eternity passed him by, and found himself standing. As if he’d been moulded back into the shape he should have been, or like he had never lost it at all. He stared down at his hands, stretching his claws, expecting them to burst out into tendrils of slime again. Soundwave still towered before him, and he grunted at the sight of his recovered body.

“Better.”

Knockout gulped, dragging his glossa around his mouth in awe of it not dribbling down his chin anymore. Coolant covered him in a thick sheet, like thickly clumped paint that refused to dry, and the dampness made the electrical currents in his nodes all the more powerful. Like lightning coursing through him and surging to his spark.

 **“Please don’t do that again,”** the voice asked, the echo in his processor sounding as exhausted as he felt. **“I don’t like being on the floor any more than you do.”**

Once again, Knockout ignored it. He’d rather talk to someone, or something, he could actually see. Even if he didn’t _want_ to see him.

Forcing himself to face Soundwave, trying not to flinch from that blank white glare, Knockout swallowed his fear to leave behind the only other thing he felt: anger.

“You still haven’t said what the Pit a ‘klyntar’ is,” he growled, “or… o-or why the frag _you_ have one! I’m informing Lord Megatron immedietel-”

His bid towards the door was short lived and futile. Even if he could have somehow broken through the oozing web of black that blocked it, gluing the mechanisms together, Soundwave enforced the helplessness he’d cultivated even further by snapping a tentacle out right in front of Knockout.

The tendril quivered before him, like a tripwire or a garotte, and stuck to the far wall. Knockout had seen the officer’s tentacles before, knowing they were nothing more than integrated data cables, but these were not the same ones that carried terabytes of Decepticon intel from one processor to another. The ribbed purple lights dimly shone through the black coating them, a purple heartbeat strangled out by the void. It was if the tentacles were only a casing for what really lurked within them.

“We would strongly advise against that," Soundwave said, only pulling the tendril back when Knockout looked away from the door, reluctantly following the warning back to its source. The medic saw the black feeler be sucked back into the officer’s chest over a tide of nausea.

“If our Lord believes there is a threat,” Soundwave went on, “he will have it terminated. And your symbiote will not allow that to happen. Now, are you going to let us explain?”

Knockout was still staring at Soundwave’s chest, trying not to be sick only because he feared his spark would come up through his throat. The officer took that as a cue to continue.

“The Klyntar are the species your symbiote is a part of. Their survival is wholly dependant on their host. Once they find one, they devote themselves to keeping it alive, and safe. They are gifts, Knockout. Your symbiote will elevate you to a state of power that you would never know otherwise. In return, it demands respect.”

Knockout curled his lip. “And? What else does it _demand_?”

Soundwave paused, baring his denta in a similar scowl. Somehow his mouth didn’t flood with energon from those fangs chewing into it.

“...Flesh,” he answered. “Carbon based. Organic. It is what keeps it docile.”

“Docile…?”

“And controllable,” Soundwave added. “Otherwise it will take you over completely and seek out the flesh itself.”

Take him over. Flesh. Organic. Take him over and force him find it. To… consume it? He’d seen what organics were made out of. Blood. Muscle. Sinew. Gristle and pus. So many disgusting fluids, their skin and their guts swarming with even lower lifeforms. Just one human was a whole colony of filth onto itself.

And now, he was no better than one of them. He was _worse_. If Soundwave was telling the truth, if the implications of it were what he thought they were...

Knockout didn’t dissolve this time. He just wanted to cry again.

“...Why?” Knockout sucked down a sob, blocking out the gurgle of his infested internals. “Why did you put this…. _thing_ in me?!”

Was it to force someone else to suffer with him? Some kind of awful experiment, like something Shockwave would mastermind? Or maybe it was karma finally coming for its due, forcing him to know what it was like to have someone else rooting around in his body. No induced stasis, no surgical precision, no secrets to uncover or medical goal to work towards. Just a passenger making itself at home, turning his frame into its vessel and his spark into its food.

The parasite made no argument against any of it. It was silent as it too waited for Soundwave to reveal why he had forced them both together. The officer narrowed his eyes again.

“For once, don’t flatter yourself,” he snarled, the harsh med bay lights making the shine of his denta almost blinding. “ _You_ were not the host we had in mind.”

Despite the kind of nightmare he was in, despite having lost his body and being in danger of losing his mind along with it, Knockout’s narcissism was still alive and well. He’d never been so insulted in his life!

“I don’t believe this, you… you’ve been carrying an alien parasite this entire time?! And you’re blaming _me_ for getting infected by it?!” Knockout was about to advance on him, but he ended up not needing to. A tendril grabbed him, black and clawed and leeching into his chest as if to seize his spark, and it pulled him across the room into Soundwave’s outstretched hand. The talons speared his neck and, for the first time since he woke up, Knockout felt pain. Stinging. The pulse of energon leaving him. He heard himself groan around the grip on his neck.

Soundwave held him off the ground and away from himself, as if he was as disgusted at Knockout as the medic was at himself.

“Do _not_ call it an infection,” Soundwave snarled, the lash of his glossa almost closing the distance between them. “It has bonded with you. Completely integrated into your systems, your spark, into every molecule and atom on your frame. It _is_ you. Otherwise, we’d tear it out of you ourselves.”

He released Knockout, who barely stayed upright as he landed and rubbed at his neck. There were no holes to mark where he’d been stabbed, or where he thought he’d been. The only sign that his throat had been breached was the hoarseness of his vocaliser as he asked;

“What do you mean _we?_ ” It was like Soundwave was dragging him into his vocaliser just like he’d dragged him into this Klyntar nightmare, and it was getting on his fragging nerves more than the pain lingering in them.

“My symbiote and I are a single being,” Soundwave explained, two voices crammed into the single vocaliser. “It speaks to me. Just as yours speaks to you.”

Knockout didn’t want to be reminded of that. But the voice spoke anyway, cold and tired and impatient. Like a parent watching a toddler throw a tantrum.

 **“How long will you struggle before you realise it’s pointless?”** it asked.

For as long as he could, is what Knockout told himself, even though he’d known it was pointless from the start.

It must have known that he knew that, too. It was only asking to remind him that he’d already lost.

Knockout trembled in what little of his frame he still recognised as his own. “It’s a monster.”

Soundwave laughed. That was the only thing Knockout could think to name the choked gurgling that bubbled out between his teeth. “There was always a monster inside of you, Knockout. What difference does one more make?”

Then his face shifted, the whites flowing aside as if he was looking elsewhere. Then the black surface rippled as he grumbled, and turned to the door in a single fluid movement. Another similarly fluid movement of a tendril snatched his visor up from the table it sat on, reattaching it to his face.

“Lord Megatron has summoned Soundwave. We will be watching you.” The jagged black bars over the exit melted, dripping down onto the floor and crawling along it towards him, rejoining the oily mass that was Soundwave in truth.

“Listen to your symbiote, Knockout,” he growled over his shoulder, “and do not disappoint us.”

The door swallowed him. And when it closed, devoid of any barrier, Knockout still felt trapped behind it. He would never be alone again. The symbiote was eager to not let him forget that as it rushed in his audios, slightly thicker than the ambient flow of energon he was used to.

“ **I suppose we should get to know each other, then**.”

Knockout sighed, not realising he’d been holding his vents closed for so long, and allowed himself to collapse against the wall again. Fusing into the infrastructure around him was the least of his worries. “What have you done to me…?”

“ **What I’ve been told to do,”** the parasite answered innocently, not fooling its host for a klick. “ **I’ve improved you. As much as I can.** ”

 _Improved_. Was it joking? Or did it not even know the extent of the damage it had done to Knockout’s body? He looked at his hand again, remembered it forming that awful trail of slime as his paint, the red he’d so painstakingly applied when he came to Earth, flaked away and became nothing more than splotches of rust on his molten silver limbs.

He changed his mind. He didn’t even want to know what had to be done to his internals to make him into this creature that the symbiote thought was an improvement. He forced himself not to think about it. Not to get upset again. He’d just be a puddle on the floor, and he might not have been able to salvage himself a second time.

So he stayed angry. He could work with angry.

“When did you… when did this happen?” he hissed. “How long have you been _in_ me for?”

 **“Not long,”** it replied, as if it was supposed to.make him feel better. **“I… I remember being in someone else before. Someone close to Soundwave. I didn’t bond with him. He only contained me, until I found you.”**

Knockout only had to think about that for a nanoklick before the answer was handed to him. He saw darkness, felt a warmth closeness as he was swaddled in it. The thrum of a spark just beneath him, through a barrier of steel. Then the dark was chased away, harsh light stabbing through the shroud and when it cleared he saw…

Himself.

Knockout’s own face looking down at the symbiote, before he pulled out the detonator charge it was wrapped around.

“Laserbeak…”

It had happened just a cycle ago, after he’d removed the bomb from the drone. So Laserbeak must have been carrying the parasite, and when he’d taken the bomb out he had removed the symbiote as well. And when the bomb was about to detonate… it went to the only safe place it could find.

It escaped the fire, only to fall into a frying pan.Knockout never thought he’d be using _that_ phrase twice in one cycle.

In theory, it could have infected anyone. Anyone who got too close to Laserbeak. Like an Autobot.

If it had been an Autobot instead… well, Knockout wouldn’t have cared who it was. As long as it wasn’t _him._

But it wasn’t the symbiote’s fault that it had jumped ship, just to avoid being incinerated. Knockout had seen parasitic infections before, the aftermath of virus outbreaks, more of them than he’d care to remember. Their only priority was to survive, too weak to do so on their own. Very few ever discriminated with their hosts. Even fewer were sentient enough to feel remorse.

And was that remorse that the symbiote felt? Remorse throbbing around Knockout’s brain, dousing it like gasoline? He didn’t think it was from himself. Remorse was one of those things that if he allowed himself to indulge in it, it would have quickly driven him insane.

“...Do you have a name?” he asked. A name would tell him just how sentient it really was.

“ **No,”** the symbiote said. **“I haven’t found one yet** . **How did you get your name?”**

Knockout blinked in confusion. Maybe it hadn’t breached his processor as much as he’d feared. “My… my sire gave me it.”

“ **Sire?”**

“My father,” he explained, hiding a scowl. “I suppose… Soundwave's symbiote would be yours.”

 **“I see…** ” It trailed off into silence. Knockout didn’t like the silence. Not anymore.

“I’m the only one who can hear you, aren’t I?” he asked.

“ **The only host who can. I can also talk to my... father** , **to an extent**.”

“What does it say? Soundwave’s symbiote?” Knockout pressed. “Does it have a name?” If he knew more about it, about what Soundwave truly was, he could work towards fixing himself.

The symbiote hesitated; Knockout could hear it congealing. “ **It calls itself Savage. And it says that you are... unworthy.”**

Knockout bristled, but didn’t flinch away from the insult. “How long has Soundwave had it for?”

“ **A very long time.”**

“And how did he get it?”

The symbiote favored silence for a long moment before it eventually spoke. **“I don’t think he would want me to tell you**.”

Knockout frowned. Of course Soundwave would have put up some kind of guard to stop his secrets spilling out like his guts. But the symbiote didn’t have to speak to be understood. He’d seen that in how it described its journey from Laserbeak to him.

“Then don’t tell me,” Knockout said. “Show me.”  
Though he’d been hoping it would, he was surprised when it actually obliged.


End file.
